


Sad boi plants? Not on Aziraphale's watch.

by narwhals_and_towers



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Absent minded Aziraphale, Aziraphale gives plants therapy, Aziraphale is Bad at Being an Angel (Good Omens), Crowley abuses his plants, Crowley is a suicidal dick, Crwoley is too he'd just never admit it, Fluff, God Ships It, Holy Water, I Ship It, Its a Thing, M/M, Moving In Together, Our angel is a soft boi, You ship it, aziraphale - Freeform, gay bois, he loves you you fool, i shit you not thats what this is about, i'd think you were a lesbian, if you were any more clueless, maybe some angst if i want, slow burn hopefully, they don't know it but they're in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 17:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19856158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narwhals_and_towers/pseuds/narwhals_and_towers
Summary: When Aziraphale moves in with Crowley, it comes to his attention that the plants aren't the happiest. Of course, being a soft lil boi he uses common sense and decides to start counselling. Not for himself. For the plants.Crowley's gay for it and everyone knows it.





	Sad boi plants? Not on Aziraphale's watch.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the characters in this work (apart from maybe the whale. I think I can have that one). 
> 
> This is my first good omens fic,,, pls don't hate it.
> 
> Maybe even leave some kudos? comments? feedback? I crave attention and love.

It didn’t take long, after the someone bothersome incident with the world nearly ending, everyone nearly dying and heave and hell nearly battling to the death thanks to Satan’s 11-year-old son and some dickhead angels, for Aziriphale to return to his bookshop feeling like it wasn’t quite right anymore. His books, though exactly the same as they were before the fire, somehow felt like they’d lost their antique touch. The new additions to his repertoire were a nice touch, but also not his own choices. And after spending so much time around humans, the customers, all oblivious to recent stresses, were all quite insensitive to an angel that had just saved all their butts.

And besides, after so much time working incredibly closely with a certain demon, things were feeling relatively quiet. With no 11-year-old to babysit, he and Crowley had very few reasons to correspond. Their phone calls were growing increasingly short, and were limited to little snippets of conversation, in which one of them would call with a ‘heaven/hell relating subject’ that was either completely made up or entirely irrelevant. Aziraphale may have been well-read, but his imagination was beginning to fail him. Crowley’s ‘there’s a whale wallowing around x street and I think you might need to get God to extract it… apparently, my demonic miracles are inadequate’ or other similar stories could never cease to disappoint, but fun as it was, it was also almost impossible to believe, (the almost relating to a boy-who-cried-wolf like scenario that ended quite chaotically). With limited communication, the angel was growing a little lonely. Well, not lonely exactly, just… lonely for Crowley. Crowley-lonely. Crowloneley.

So, after a very very long chat with anathema, which went, to sum it up, like this:

Aziraphale: I miss Crowley, I want to move in with him

Anathema: Then do

Aziraphale: But he probably doesn’t want that

Anathema: Then don’t

Aziraphale: But I miss Crowley!

and so on, and ended like this:

Newt: For heaven’s sake, you useless man. I’m calling Crowley myself and asking.

This conclusion to a 74 minute, 39 second and 4.2-millisecond conversation was relatively abrupt, and ended with a firm “yes sure don’t hesitate” on the demon’s part, to which the angel replied, not entirely truthfully, that “of course, he hadn’t hesitated at all.” This was a lie. And a very bad lie indeed. But the result was the same. Not long later, Aziraphale was packing a bag and bounding out of his shop with an air of cheerful excitement. He didn’t sell it, of course. Over the years, he had given it a beautiful ‘loved’ feel he’d grown fond of. But he’d grown relatively fond of Crowley too, to put it bluntly.

When Aziriphale moved into Crowley’s house, there were a couple of ground rules set. Never entering Crowley’s room was one of the lesser respected ones. "No holy water on the premises" was one of the more respected ones. But the most mysterious, in Aziraphale’s eyes, was the very intense demand that he was, under no circumstances, allowed to utter even a word to the plants. If, for any reason, he had to pass the canopy of luscious green leaves, he was to keep his mouth shut and his eyes averted.

Of course, as a guest in the house, although his role as “guest” was slowly getting forgotten, it felt vital to the angel that the rules were followed to the best of his ability, though Crowley was often more than willing to allow a thing or two to slide. A thing or two meaning that, if the moment permitted it, there were no particular consequences if he was invited into the demon’s room for a moment or, on occasion, for the night. This was, though neither of them would ever dare admit it, even to themselves, something both found themselves enjoying thoroughly. The other two rules, however, were made very clear by Crowley to be a little less, well, fun.

As far as Aziriphale was concerned, the rule against holy water, though majorly bothersome in the best of times, was relatively understandable. Or at least that’s what he told Crowley on the night of the ‘Rule Setting’, which felt terribly dramatic to the demon, but his ange- no- _the_ angel was quite insistent on the importance of an occasion for it. Or maybe it was just an occasion for them both to get dressed up. Crowley hadn’t investigated any further into Aziriphale’s reasoning. If it made the angel happy, that was fine. The holy water rule made, in the end, perfect sense, considering the whole “dying forever and never coming back” situation that tended to get stirred up when one was a demon and one got holy watered.

Aziraphale did have the nerve to ask why, if it was so concerning, did the demon still have the bottle of holy water. This was simply waved off, causing the angel to remark, in less family-friendly terms, that desiring death was unhealthy and that Crowley was a massive idiot. Those less family-friendly terms sounded a little bit like “Crowley you motherfucking suicidal shitbag, get your ass up here and stop being such a fucking bitch of an idiot.” In hindsight, that was a little bit extra, but it’s the thought that counts, is it not? And besides, 6,000 years was too long to know someone and just let them waste their potential, (though said potential had been lessened by a little bit of falling that had unfortunately led Crowley to cease to be an angel and to pick up a new and not so improved life in hell) and kill themself. It seemed, in the angel’s eyes, just a tad selfish. Of course, as a demon, selfishness was one of the this Crowley was supposed to practice expertly. That didn’t make it any more acceptable. And if he were holy-watered, he wouldn’t be a demon at all anymore, would he?

But then there were the plants. The plants remained a mystery to Aziriphale for many, many months. He never saw or heard the demon going into the room to water them. He never heard very much about the plants. Perhaps he watered them while the angel was working in the shop every day. Perhaps he believed so much that they didn’t need to be watered, in which case maybe they didn’t. Either way, on a sunny Friday one July, the blonde angel found himself bounding out onto the street to cheerfully call a cab with the plants on the forefront of his mind.

“Where to, young fellow,” the driver piped, as Aziriphale slammed the door, strumming his fingers on the window sill. He looked up.

“The bookshop.”

Now, if any other person on earth at the time, other than Crowley, were to ask such a question, most likely the response would have been something along the lines of “how the bloody hell am I supposed to know which bookshop you’re talking about.” But there’s just something about angels (and demons) that makes drivers know exactly where to go, which sounds jolly convenient if you ask me. Think about it. No fiddling with maps, no glitching google maps or “oh sHIT I’m out of data”s. No fumbling with addresses and getting them wrong. No getting lost, nothing. And so, it was not long later that he found himself dumped on the curb outside his little shop, halfway up the stair, swearing to himself as he ran his fingers through his pockets.

“Oh bugger!” he muttered, swinging a leg anxiously as he rattled the doorknob. “Bugger, bugger bUGGER!”

“No keys?” called a man on the street. “I know that feeling all too well. Good luck!”

Seriously. What on earth was it about humans and interjecting at the most annoying times. First that guy who seemed to think he was breaking up with Crowley as he headed to Alpha Centauri (seriously, who would think that. He and the demon were proud to say their relationship was solely platonic, basically), then this idiot who thought his condolences were going to make the keys randomly appear in his pockets.

Perhaps, if he actually wanted that, he’d perform a small miracle. But his mind was still on the plants. Perhaps, if he headed back to their house, the demon would be out, or busy. It didn’t seem like the worst of ideas, really. Besides, Crowley was a demon. Aziraphale had a reputation of an angel to live up to. He might as well do something a little angelic. And what was more angelic than snooping through a demon’s things.

Aware that he was signing up for certain death, the turned his back to the door and marched back to the roadside, hailing a cab.

He deserved a little fun one in a while, didn’t he?

It wasn’t even a question.

Of course he did. 


End file.
